A Grave Occasion
by randomsquare
Summary: Killian Jones has once again been called in on his day off last minute, to tend bar for a wake being held at his brother's bar. And he's bitter about it. That is, until he sees the lass who clearly doesn't belong among the mourners. The one holding court with a whiskey and a sharp eye, with what appears to be handcuffs tucked into her waistband... Captain Swan Modern AU. One-shot
**A/N: This little meet-cute comedy that nobody asked for or wanted was inspired by a day at work last week, with apologies to the dearly departed. Though your soul may have crossed over, your predilection for the music of Johnny Cash lives on in bad fan fiction. Gotta be happy with that. Also, I thought we could all use a little comedy?
**

 _"In the navy,_  
 _Yes, you can sail the seven seas."_

Killian Jones pried open one eye, then the other.

 _Bloody Liam._

It wasn't the first time he'd had found himself rather rudely awakened by the rousing chorus of his brother's personalized ringtone well before his alarm.

 _"In the navy,_  
 _Yes, you can put your mind at ease."_

He thought it had been such an inspired song choice at the time. So witty. Sometimes, he really wanted to punch his past self for his poor decision-making skills.

 _"In the navy,_  
 _Come on now, people, make a stand."_

Thanks to the extortionately expensive black-out blinds he'd installed a few months ago, when the late shifts started getting to him, his bedroom was as dark as a crypt, making searching for the offending device a tad difficult under the circumstances.

 _"In the navy, in the navy_  
 _Can't you see we need a hand."_

The phone lit up in time with the music, marking its place buried in his sheets, and Killian dove for it before the whole sorry mess started over again.

"Aye?" He didn't bother disguising the bark in his tone. His brother knew well enough that Killian Jones wasn't capable of civilities before noon.

"Ah, you're awake!" came the disconcertingly cheerful response. "Excellent!"

"You know damn well I'm awake, since you're the one who woke me!" Killian snarled. "And it's not even-" he pulled the phone back a little to find the time, "8am? Are you bloody mad? You do realize I didn't get in until 3 last night, because I stayed late taking _your_ inventory, brother?"

There was a slight pause on the line, and then a whoosh of his brother's exhale as he switched tack. "You're right. And I appreciate that. But something has come up, and I really need you to open for me today."

"And by _something_ you mean... _what_ precisely, brother? Or is it a _whom_ , this time? Elsa, perhaps? Or is it Belle, this week?"

"Killian!" It was Liam's turn to get testy now. "Can you open, or do I have to call around to whichever flophouse Will is calling home this week, and get him in? Assuming he doesn't drink the place dry in my absence, that is."

Killian let out a strangled groan, which turned into a yawn. "Fine, fine, I'll do it. But you owe me one. I mean it, Liam. I want Saturday off, like we discussed."

A reluctant sigh. "Agreed. I'll sort something out. Thank you, little brother."

" _Younger_ brother! _"_ Killian corrected, but it was too late, Liam had already hung up.

* * *

The Admiral's Arms was every bit as kitschy as the name suggested, a nautical themed pub tucked away a few streets from the docks. It was Liam's pub, and it showed. Even for a man who'd been living in America for near on a decade, and out of the Senior Service for longer than that, the place practically radiated his love for Queen and country. It was all low-hanging wooden beams and eccentric angles, cheap relics from the Age of Sail nailed to the wall; tarnished brass compasses, remarkably incomplete world maps drawn onto yellowed paper, things like that. _It had_ _character_ , Liam would argue every time some city inspector would come a calling, tutting over the uneven steps or the beams, or any of the myriad of features which just invited a lawsuit.

So far, they'd gotten lucky. Their regulars were hardly the litigious sort, anyway. Dockworkers for the most part, hard men with lined faces which betrayed harder lives, content to drink most of their paltry earnings away. Killian liked their company. They weren't much for meaningful conversation, or asking too many questions. They drank, and they ate pretzels, and they drank some more. Which was just as well, since every evening between six and midnight, Killian tended bar, ostensibly so that he would make enough tips to get himself back on his feet, and back to school. He wondered how long it would be until Liam worked out that going back to school was not anywhere on the agenda. Hopefully after Killian had accrued enough tips to move out of his brother's house, because he was sure _that_ would make for an awkward living situation.

It wasn't long after Killian had set up the float for the day, and gotten most everything situated, that he realized his brother had left out a very significant detail out of what the opening shift would entail. That is, until he consulted the calendar pinned to the wall by the phone, and saw the words scrawled in his brother's hand in smudged red ink.

 _Walter Godfrey_

 _Wake_

 _80 ppl_

A little fact Liam might have mentioned before he'd skipped out to romance whichever girl he was currently pining over that week.

* * *

Walter Godfrey hadn't been a regular. In fact, as far as Killian could tell, he'd never even stepped foot in the Admiral's Arms whilst he'd been among the living. He certainly didn't recognize the professionally shot portrait his daughter set by the door, showing a stern-looking senior citizen in a cowboy hat, all bushy eyebrows and barely concealed disdain for whoever had taken the photograph. He sure looked like a cheerful fellow.

Killian thought it was more likely they'd been picked as a suitable location to raise a toast to the dearly departed by sheer virtue of being the closest watering hole to the discount chain funeral home down the street. A theory which solidified when the daughter slid a shiny CD case over the bar, and asked if he'd mind playing _"just a few of Dad's favorite tunes"_ over the radio.

Country.

Walter Godfrey liked country.

Johnny Cash. Hank Williams. Patsy Cline.

Now, the Admiral's Arms was hardly a honky-tonk bar, and Killian had always been especially grateful for that fact. Killian had a unique dislike for all things country music, following a particularly torturous six month stretch sharing a tiny studio apartment with a lad from Tennessee. _Never again_ , he had vowed. But he didn't have the heart to turn this woman down, not when she'd just come in from laying her own father to rest.

So, like the professional he was, he grinned and bore it, and went back to serving vodka tonics and pitchers of Bud to the mourners who had begun trickling in after the service. They came down the stairs in groups of two or three, arms linked together to keep their companions steady as they descended those tricky steps.

All except _her_.

The blonde in the patent leather coat. He noticed her immediately.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful, though she was that. The long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in tousled waves. The coat clearly too small for her, accentuating soft curves. Long legs encased in skin-tight black jeans. Aye, she was beautiful alright. But that wasn't all that set her apart from Walter Godfrey's assembled friends and family.

For one, she was alone. For another, she hadn't filed past the man's daughter and her family when she'd arrived to offer a hug and a few words of condolence as most of the others did. Instead she'd come right to the bar and ordered a whisky neat, and gone to sit at a table by the stairs, eyes shifting constantly across the tangle of people filing in. And that jacket, though it did rather wonderful things for her figure, wasn't quite right. It was cheap, ill-fitting. It looked like something she'd picked up at a thrift store just before the service, to fit in better with the black-clad mourners. It looked, to Killian's mind, like a _disguise_.

* * *

When the rest of the crowd had shuffled in and settled down to swap stories of Walter Godfrey's more hilarious qualities, and Folsom Prison Blues had cycled three times over on the stereo, Killian made his move.

"A drink for the lady," he said, placing the glass down on the table in front of her, startling the lass from her surveillance of the stairs. Then, before she could argue, he grabbed the chair beside her and twisted it around so that he could sit in it backwards, drawing himself to her side.

"I didn't order a drink," she said, her voice even, though he could tell his sudden proximity had unnerved her.

"Perhaps not. But that's 15 year old Glenfiddich single malt. It'll really put the _fun_ in funeral."

She turned to him then, green eyes narrowing as she considered him. "What do you want?"

"Well, you see, lass, I'm quite perceptive," Killian said, tapping his temple. "And I cannot help but notice that you're here all alone, rather fixated on those stairs. I suppose that leads a man to wondering how exactly they'd managed to hold your attention over the hilarious anecdotes from the misadventures of the late Mr Godfrey."

The lass snorted. "I'm waiting for someone," she answered breezily. "A friend."

"Indeed," Killian remarked with raised brows. "Must be a special sort of friend, what with you carrying those around," he said, leaning down to tap the handcuffs which were tucked into her waistband, visible where her jacket had ridden up. The rings on his right hand clinked against the metal, and the lass froze, realizing she'd been made.

"Are you police?" Killian asked, keeping his voice low. He figured if there was going to be trouble in his brother's bar, it was better he knew about it.

She shook her head slowly, so as not to attract attention.

He tilted his head to the side, considering her. "You're not a stripper, are you? Because I didn't really think it was that kind of party."

She didn't bother responding to that one, just shot him glare out of the corner of her eye, most of her attention returning to the stairs.

"It's not poisoned, you know," Killian said, motioning down at the Scotch.

"Thanks, but I don't accept drinks from strange men," she replied, sounding none too thankful.

"Well then, allow me to introduce myself: Killian Jones, friendly neighborhood bartender, and caretaker of this here establishment." Killian held out a hand.

Her gaze drifted back to his hand, but she didn't take it. "Emma Swan," she said quietly. "Bail bondsperson."

"Bail bonds?" He knew his voice must have carried, because he felt the sharp pain of the lass's boot connecting with his shin.

"Will you keep it down?" she said between gritted teeth. "You'll blow the whole thing!"

Killian bent down to rub vigorously at the spot she'd kicked. _That_ was going to leave a bruise. "Apologies, lass. And what " _whole thing"_ would that be?"

She shot him another exasperated look, but Killian remained unmoved. Call him curious, he had no intention of going back behind the bar until he'd worked out exactly what kind of trouble this Emma Swan was inviting. A fact which, after a whole minute of tense silence, she seemed to accept with the roll of her eyes.

"Walter Godfrey has a son. Had a son," she corrected. "Kenny. Out on bail for knocking over a convenience store. He didn't make his court date last week. I figured he might be sentimental enough to attend his own father's funeral. So far, no such luck."

Killian paused to take in this information, rocking back on his chair.

"So you were planning on _what_? Cuffing the man in front of his grieving family, at his own father's wake? _That's cold_ , lass."

Emma shrugged. "If I had to. I'd settle for following him back to his car, finding out where he's holed up." Killian had to admit, it sounded a good deal more exciting, and a good deal more exhausting than his method of earning a crust.

"I see. And what does this Kenny fellow look like again?"

"Like his Dad, only his hair still has some red left in it. A few less jowls. Why?" Emma asked, eyes not moving from the stairs.

"Because I think maybe someone might have discovered I left the service entrance unlocked this morning..." he trailed off meaningfully. "Your 3 o' clock?"

The man in question was leaning by the far wall near the restrooms, right by an old framed oil painting of a Man-o-war firing a salute Liam had once picked up at a jumble sale. He looked skittish, sweat having soaked through his shirt, keeping an eye on the proceedings from a safe distance. Killian watched with interest as Emma's eyes fixed on her prize like a jungle cat zeroing in on her prey.

"That's the chap, then?" Killian asked, but the way Emma slid from her seat was all the confirmation he needed. He sighed, reaching an arm out to stop her.

"Can you promise me something, lass?"

She looked annoyed at the interruption, but she motioned with her hand, telling him to lay out his terms already.

"Please wait until he's out of sight. I don't much fancy my chances of a good Yelp review if you tackle him to the floor in front of his grieving family."

She raised a single eyebrow, as if determining if he was serious or not, before she nodded, retaking her seat beside him, and Killian let his hand fall back at his side.

"Thank you, Emma," he said, eyeing a dour looking gentleman approaching the bar. "I think I best get back to work," he said, rapping his knuckles on the table, and to his surprise, she raised her glass to him when he rose, taking a sip.

"Not just some strange man anymore?" he asked, because he couldn't help himself, but she just gave him a small smile, letting her attention fall back to her mark.

* * *

He lost sight of her after, with the streams of people making their way back out to the street, the glasses needing to be washed piled up around him. But as promised, there was no scene. No overturned tables as a desperate man beat a path for the exit. No wailing as a grieving sister saw her only brother carted away in handcuffs. No having to explain what had occurred to Liam, as he cleaned up the devastation. Small mercies and all that.

It wasn't until he was left to clear the remaining tables that he spotted it. The same napkin on which he had delivered her scotch. It was a little damp now, but he could still make out the words written in Sharpie.

 _Damn fine Scotch, sir._

 _Emma_

 _555-083_

He tucked it into his jeans pocket with a smile, suddenly struck with an idea of how he could spend his Saturday off.


End file.
